


Once Upon a Time Not Long Ago

by Pinkerton



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Hat Theft, Humor, M/M, lovingly mocking NHL players' fondess for horrible snapbacks and chipotle, the long suffering of Jeff Troy and Jamie Benn, the worst thing I've written? the best thing I've written?, this pairing isn't selfcest but it's also not not selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: “Hey, handsome, wanna dance?” Kent asks.Solid fucking gold line. Goddamn, pushing 30 and he’s still got it.The dude pivots and it turns out his face is totally hot, which would normally be a win, but --He’s also totally Tyler Seguin.Fuck Kent’s life.“Yeah, Parse,” Seguin says, “I’ll dance if you finally admit my Body Issue was better than yours.”





	Once Upon a Time Not Long Ago

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this amazing fan video](https://agrossunderstatement.tumblr.com/post/176465417934/leafsbabe-im-not-sorry-heres-x-the-video-i). Warning: Rocket Pop fellatio. 
> 
> A/N: Scotchguard is a brand of fabric protectant spray. Also, idk if Tyler actually has a niece, that’s one more Google search than I'm willing to do.

**NHL Awards After Party, June, 2020, Seattle**

_Mo money, I want yo money,_

“Jeffrey,” Kent shoves his mouth against Jeff’s ear and decides at the last moment not to bite him, since he’s asking for a favor and all. “Troysie, dance with me.”

“Yeah, for sure, if you want me to hand you your ass again.” Jeff bats Kent’s hand away from what’s left of his Jack and Coke and gently removes Kent from where he’s draped across his shoulder. 

“I can dance,” Kent grumbles. He steals Fish’s abandoned shot instead. It tastes like purple. 

_I was a hoe, and I’m admittin’ it_

“I won’t take it back cause I did the shit,” Kent sings along. He tugs Jeff onto the dance floor, and he’ll take that as a victory, cause a 230-pound D-man isn’t really moved around unless he wants to be. 

Jeff does that thing that makes his giant ass bounce, a move Kent will never admit to attempting to replicate in hotel mirrors across North America. 

His version still needs work.

Jeff spins and it looks cool, so Kent mirrors it and there’s only a little wobble at the end. 

Should have left that purple shot on the table, damn. He’ll stick to his tried and true moves, thank you very much.

_I said if I want’ fuck him, gon' fuck him_

Kent’s hands are in the air and he does not care when Jeff leans over and whisper-yells, “You dance like a drunk sorority girl.”

Kent pulls Jeff in by his collar, “I _am_ a drunk sorority girl.”

He lets go and pats him on the chest but doesn’t turn it into a grope because Jeff doesn’t appreciate Kent’s genius, and Kent doesn’t need that kind of negativity in his life. “You suck,” Kent announces as he leaves to find someone who is actually fun. 

He looks back to see if Jeff misses him, but he’s already got a hot girl wrapped around him, and like, respect, you know?

His eyes land on someone getting low near the DJ booth and, hopefully, his face is as hot as his back. 

His sweaty, sweaty back. 

Muscles. Rippling. 

Gnah.

Kent’s not Brad fucking Marchand, he won’t randomly lick the dude no matter how much he wants to, but he will get close enough to drop a line on him. 

“Hey, handsome, wanna dance?” 

Solid fucking gold line. Goddamn, pushing 30 and he’s still got it. 

The dude pivots and it turns out his face is totally hot, which would normally be a win, but -- 

He’s also totally Tyler Seguin. 

Fuck Kent’s life. 

“Yeah, Parse,” Seguin says, “I’ll dance if you finally admit my Body Issue was better than yours.” 

He has on one of his stupid hats because of course he does.

“Never,” Ket hisses as he lunges for the hat. Seguin sidesteps and Kent grabs air. “Fine, keep your stupid hat. And my photoshoot was patriotic, _Tyler_.” 

“Patriotic my left nut, you ripped all that off from Magic Mike. The shitty one, not even the good one.”

“One; XXL wasn’t out yet, and two, you’re missing the song, are you gonna grind with me or what?”

“Fine,” Seguin says as he places his snapback on Kent’s head and spins it backward. “If it will shut you up.”

Seguin slides behind Kent and pulls him flush against his body, and fuck Jeff, cause he’s sure the two of them look hot as all hell, or would if Seguin would move his goddamn hips. 

“You’re not drunk enough for this,” Kent complains, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the bar. 

Twenty minutes and three shots of tequila each later, Seguin’s hips are moving just fine. Maybe Kent’s riding the thigh Seguin has between his legs more than just a little, but like, if you don’t get a semi, is it even dancing?

Two more shots and the night goes blurry.

* * * * 

The hotel room is cold and dark when he wakes up; there’s bottled water and Advil in arms reach on the nightstand. 

No one can say past Kent doesn’t take care of future Kent.

He calls in a massive room service breakfast and takes a shower, then jerks off in front of the bathroom mirror, Seguin’s hat flipped backward on his head. 

He’s halfway through his eggs when he feels ready to face his phone. 

There are 19 snaps from Jeff of him dancing with Seguin, looking absolutely fantastic, thank you very much, and one text from an unknown number.

_I want my hat back u dick_

He shoots off a reply then throws the phone in the general direction of his suitcase, finishes his eggs, and goes back to sleep.

Somewhere to the left of his bag of hair products, the screen lights up.

_gross, that’s not bros dude_

* * * *

**Toronto, July 2020**

“Excuse me?” Kent says, vocal fry pulling the last word out. “Sorry, but I ordered an iced hazelnut latte, not vanilla?”

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and when he turns, Tyler Seguin is holding a grande cup out toward him. “Sorry, bro. I think I grabbed yours.”

Kent wrinkles his nose. “Did you already drink from it?”

“Rumors of my herpes have been greatly exaggerated.” Seguin swaps their drinks, then gestures for Kent to follow him to an empty set of chairs. 

“So,” Seguin says, “took you long enough to get a place in Toronto.”

Kent shrugs. “No fun in Vegas when your boys aren’t around, you know?”

“Totally. You want in on the group chat?”

“Um.” Kent is momentarily distracted by whatever Seguin is doing to his straw. There’s way more tongue involved than is appropriate in public on a Tuesday morning. “I can kind of already feel my publicist’s blood pressure going up.”

Segs snorts and pulls out his phone. “We’re good Canadian boys. No worries.”

“I’ve dated enough of you to know that’s not true.” Kent’s phone chimes to inform him that he’s been added to BALLERZZZZZZZ. 

“I dunno,” Seguin takes a long sip of his drink and licks his lips. “Maybe you got a couple bad apples. Come out with me and my boys. Introduce you to some gentlemen.” 

“Yeah.” Seguin’s mouth is stupidly pink. “Okay.”

Seguin’s mouth is no less pink much, much, much later that night, yelling at Kent from where he’s laid out shirtless on the bar. 

“Who the fuck taught you how to do body shots?” Seguin complains as he sits up. He flips his hat back around with one hand as he dries his stomach off with a fistful of cocktail napkins. 

“Your mom.” Kent swaps spots with him; the bar is disgustingly sticky when his bare back hits it, but Seguin is already looming over him, a bottle of Stoli lifted high over his chest. 

“Don’t shit talk my mom like that.” 

If jerking off while wearing a dude’s hat isn’t bros, slipping a hand down a dude’s jeans while licking his abs in public shouldn’t be either.

Seguin is a dirty tease who doesn’t even make it down far enough to hit dick, but Kent forgives him a little later when they’re making out in a corner booth. His tongue is better in his mouth than it was on his abs, and Kent’s got a hand on his scrawny ass, angling him for some good friction. 

Someone’s tapping him on the shoulder. 

Someone is ignoring his raised middle finger and still tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Little busy,” Kent informs Jamie Benn before attempting to resume what he was doing to Seguin’s neck. 

“Seggy’s gotta go,” Benn says.

Kent pulls himself away from Seguin’s mouth long enough to leer at Benn and his brick house of a body, cause damn.

Benn reaches out and wraps his massive, massive arms around Kent’s chest. 

“Oh that’s how it goes in Dallas, huh?” Kent slurs. “Whose apartment are we taking this three-way back to -- hey, what the hell?” 

“Stop wiggling,” Benn pleads as he uses his glorious arms pry Kent off of his alternate captain and get him steady-ish on his feet. He turns back and hauls Seguin upright. “Say bye to the captain of our second biggest rivals, you traitor.” 

“So is that a no on the threesome?” Kent lurches forward to follow them.

Benn sighs deeply enough for Kent to hear it over the music. “C’ mon, Parson. We’re getting you a cab.”

It’s only a ten-minute drive back to Kent’s apartment. He’s so, so tired. He watches himself brush his teeth in the bathroom mirror. Fuck does his hair look dumb.

Wait a second. 

“Motherfucker!” He throws the brush in the sink and grabs his phone. 

_WHERE IS MY HAT_

Seconds later, a snapchat notification bubbles up. It’s dark and grainy, but unmistakably Seguin sprawled out in bed, wearing Kent’s favorite Aces snapback, the little shit.

Another pic, and this time the hat is covering a very different body part.

Kent gives up on finishing brushing his teeth and relocates to his bed before he replies. 

_no one likes a cock block brah_

The hat is entirely absent in the next shot that comes through. “Huh, that’s a hard left curve on someone who plays center,” he tells Kit as he gently shoves her out of bed and grabs some lube.

* * * *

**Las Vegas, December 2020**

Vegas plays Dallas enough for Kent to get tired of trying to shut down Radulov’s line, and tired of failing to get Bishop to give him a piggyback ride through the corridors of whatever arena they’re at. Kent just wants to feel super tall for once. Apparently, that’s too much to ask of a 6’7” Vezina finalist, like, really?

The Aces goalies are only 6’3” and 6’4”. It’s just not the same.

They don’t play each other enough for Kent to get laid as much as he’d like. He’s never hooked up with someone he can 69 with so easily, and the novelty hasn’t worn off yet. 

Neither has the appeal of the beard burn Seguin leaves behind, as if the hickeys weren’t enough.

Stupid, sexy Seguin.

“You’re flying to Dallas for two days, right?” Jeff came over an hour ago to return Kent’s cooler and then never left. He prods at the small mound of clothes on Kent’s bed with his socked foot. “Why do you need -- ” he squints, “seven pairs of briefs and...is that a leopard print jock?”

Kent stares at him as he drops four bottles of lube into his duffle.

“Lucky you have Pre-Check. That would never fit in a quart ziplock.”

Kent reaches out and slowly starts to slide his bedside table’s top drawer open.

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.” Jeff mumbles something else Kent can’t hear, but it’s fine. He doesn’t need Jeff’s sass, he’s very busy contemplating his condom flavor choices.

When Kent waltzes into the locker room for practice two days later, Jeff rolls his eyes. “Good sexcation?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Kent smirks. “It was too short, though. You know what’s just the right length?”

“I can probably guess.” Jeff reaches over and pokes at the bruise on Kent’s collarbone because Jeff is a jerk. “Just like,” he waves his hand in a circle, “all of you is a TMI.”

“You should see the other guy. You going to Costco any time soon? Need more lube.”

He should have seen it coming, but the lingering effects of two days of orgasms have dulled his reflexes, and Jeff’s quick, the bastard.

Whatever. It’s not like it hurts to peel hockey tape off your mouth, anyway. 

“Silencing me with pride tape? That’s pretty homophobic of you, Jeffrey.” He balls up the offending piece and lobs it at Jeff’s head.

It misses. 

Kent sits down and works on tying his laces. “Anyway, I really gotta tell you about the tongue thing he does when he gets thatmmphh.” 

A second piece of tape at the ready? Jeff’s finally learning to clap back.

“That’s not how you use ‘clap back’,” Jeff informs him when he tells him as much.

Kent isn’t going to condescend to check Urban Dictionary. He knows what’s up. 

_that’s not how you use clap back babe_ Seguin texts him later that night.

Kent sends an angry emoji, followed by _see if I ever eat you out again_

Check and mate. 

He holds out an entire five hours when Seguin flies in two weeks later. 

It’s a moral victory.

* * * *

**Dallas, January 2021**

“It’s not an endorsement,” he explains to his sister for the millionth time. “It’s a charity thing. Philanthropy is in the title.”

“Yes.” The dryness of her voice crackles through the line. “The Absolut Vodka Ab Challenge Philanthropy Tournament.”

“It’s a pun.” He pulls up the website. Dammit, Seggy also made it to the next round. “Is your bracket losing? Is that why you’re mad?”

“What are you going to do when it’s you and your boyfriend as the last two standing?” He can hear his niece fussing in the background.

“Not my boyfriend. You know you can vote for me three times a day, right?”

“I can vote for _someone_ three times a day.” 

“Hey!”

“Objectively, Tyler’s abs are —“ the background noise ramps up into crying. “Alice, honey — “ Something crashes. “Gotta go!”

He makes a mental note to never ever tell Segs that his own flesh and blood voted against him, then spends a few minutes trying to find something to watch on tv. 

Nothing looks good. He picks up his phone. 

“Hey,” Seguin answers. The Stars are on a brutal roadie and got their asses handed to them by Montreal last night. He sounds tired.

“You sound tired. Are we boyfriends?”

“The hell?”

“Are we boyfriends?” He boops Kit on the nose as she comes up to say hi. 

“I guess?” Seguin answers after a pause.

Kent stretches out so Kit can walk across him. “It’s more of a yes or no question.”

There’s a long silence.

“Tyler?”

“Shit. Have you slept with anyone else in the past,” Seguin trails off briefly and Kent waits. “The past, like, I don’t know, three months?”

“Why would I? You’re easy and not terrible in bed.”

“Huh.” It’s Seguin’s thoughtful voice, which usually only comes out when debating which dog toys to buy. “Same. Did we accidentally become exclusive?”

Kit’s completely blissed out kneading his chest. It’s so cute, but her little claws hurt. “Guess we did. My Air Yeezys are at your place.” 

“And I let you drive my Maserati. Boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends,” Kent agrees. “Celebratory FaceTime sex?”

“Yeah, gotta feed the dogs first. Gimme five?”

“I’m getting started without you.”

“I can’t believe I’m dating you.”

“I’m a national treasure.” Kent relocates Kit and takes off his shorts. 

Two weeks later, Kent wins the abs contest by a solid margin of 3%. You Can Play gets $15K, and Kent gets a victory blowie from his boyfriend. 

“No losers here,” Kent says when Seguin comes back from washing his face. “Except for you.”

“Suck it,” he grumbles. 

Kent shrugs, and does. 

* * * *

**Dallas, February 2021**

The next time they’re in Dallas, Benn gives Kent the shovel talk, and Seguin laughs so hard he cries. 

“S’ok, Benn,” Kent assures him, one arm around his boyfriend as he wipes tears off his face. “I can send you some tape from my hotel room last night if you want to really make sure I’m taking care of your boy.” 

Turns out Benn moves equally fast running out the door of a fast-casual dining establishment as he does on the ice. 

“The three-way offer still stands!” Kent yells after him. Seguin’s collapsed against his side, still laughing. Kent rubs his shoulder. “Can we nap at yours?”

“Obviously.” Seguin pats Kent’s chest and kisses his cheek. “Wanna pretend to butt dial Jamie and make sex noises till he hangs up?”

Kent turns Seguin’s face to him for a proper kiss. “It’s embarrassing that he still falls for that.”

Seguin shrugs. “Love me, love my dumbass bestie.”

“Yeah, it’s not the worst contract requirement.”

They’re settling in for a perfect pre-game nap -- cold, dark room, snuggly pets, lavender oil diffusing, white noise machine going -- when Seguin bolts upright. 

“Oh my god,” he says. “Did you tell me you love me for the first time at a Chipotle?”

Kent thinks. “To be fair, you told me that I love you. At a Chipotle.”

“Fuck.” Seguin moves to sit cross-legged and looks at Kent. “Think we can get free burritos out of that?”

Kent blinks at him.

“I mean, I love you, duh. But, free Chipotle.”

“Good to know where I stand, babe.” Kent squeezes Seguin’s knee. “I love you, too, and I’d normally totally be down for some sex about it, but sleep deprived hockey players who are shitty on ice definitely don’t get big gay burrito money.”

“Fine.” Seguin flops over and curls against him. “We gotta get free guac in writing, at least.”

“All the guac,” Kent agrees.

* * * *

**Toronto, April 2021**

“These are so far up my ass they’re gonna need surgically removed,” Seguin hisses as he pulls at the crotch of the short shorts he’s wearing. 

“Fuck, I know.” Kent shifts the basketball he’s holding his other hip and pulls down at the hem of his own shorts. “Thank god for jocks or I’d be worried about showing brain, damn.”

His eyes dart across the room, where Marner, McDavid, and Matthews are in old school Blue Jays uniforms. Hard pass on Marner and McDavid, but Matthews in really tight pants is something to behold.

Seguin steps into his line of vision. “Enjoying the view?”

Kent looks down at his boyfriend’s ridiculous vintage Raptors getup, the cut of his hips visible where his tank top is riding up. “Am now.”

“Gross,” Seguin says, but he’s smiling, eyes all crinkly. “Think we can keep the outfits?”

“Oh my god that’s hot, but shut up, I cannot get a boner in these things.” 

And there’s Seguin’s laugh, easy and goofy and maybe the best sound on earth. 

“Alright boys,” the director’s voice booms over the set, “welcome to the Toronto Sports Celebration 70s Throwback theme photo shoot, and special thanks to Parson and Seguin for being good sports about our uh, creative liberties in making things work with a team founded in the ’90s. You boys look great!”

“I wouldn’t kick us out of bed!” Kent offers sunnily.

McDavid doesn’t actually choke on the pretzel he’s chewing, but it’s a close thing.

“Love the hustle, Parson. So, we thought it would be fun to have you boys try out some different sports, today -- ” 

Kent spends the next half hour playing H.O.R.S.E. against his boyfriend, which, okay.

“That’s R for you, not O,” Tyler points out.

“I know how to spell ‘horse’,” Kent snaps.

“I’ve heard stories about the American education system,” Tyler says as he sinks his shot. “It’s okay. I’m comfortable being the smart one in our relationship.”

“Are you comfortable with my foot up your --”

“Okay, boys, I think I have what I need!” the photographer interrupts. “You can hit the showers.”

Kent only oogles Seguin in the shower twice, on account of being mad and all.

He’s hoping to slip out and go the hell home after, but then Marner and Matthews find him, and they drag him and Seguin to the ice rink in the next building, losing a good half hour to chirping the Raptor’s starting lineup as they take shots on goal in the Leafs boring-ass ‘73 -’74 sweaters. 

Everyone ends up going out for beers, and by the time he and Seguin make it back to his apartment, Kent’s sleepy and buzzed and ready to forgive his horrible boyfriend. 

As soon as his diva ass finishes in the bathroom and gets into bed, anyway.

“Can’t find any vitamin C serum!” Seguin yells.

“Look behind the sheet masks!” Kent yells from the bed. 

He’s halfway to passed out when Seguin finally comes back in the room, clearing his throat till Kent props himself up and look at him.

He’s in the full shoot outfit, knee-high socks and sneakers and all, and he’s definitely got a boner.

Kent’s mouth goes dry.

“Still thinking about Matthew’s ass in those pants?” Seguin shimmies.

“No,” Kent manages.

Seguin drags a hand down his chest, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. “Still mad at me?”

“Not if you get over here, now.”

Seguin crawls onto the bed, the shorts stretching obscenely as he moves. 

“We should get into basketball,” Kent says when Seguin stops and strips off his tank top.

Seguin waggles his eyebrows at Kent. “I got two balls right here, no waiting.” 

“Pretty sure that’s baseball,” Kent says as Seguin shoves him onto his back.

Seguin puts Kent’s hand on his dick, and Kent shuts up.

The uniform ends up kind of shredded, but the convenient thing about being millionaires is that shelling out for overnight shipping on replacements is totally doable

* * * *

**Somewhere over the midwest US mainland, July 4th, 2021**

“The blindfold is cute and all,” Kent says, “but I can kind of tell we’re on a plane, baby.” 

Seguin’s voice comes in from the left, along with some weird clanking noises. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure,” Kent says loud enough to make sure he’s heard over the noise of the engines. They took off maybe ten minutes ago. It’s cute that Seguin is making so much effort for his birthday, honestly, but Kent got over the Stars beating them in the conference finals a good month ago.

Well, a good couple of weeks ago. More or less. 

A few more minutes pass, then Seguin’s helping him over to a chair. “Okay,” Seguin says once Kent is settled. He gets a whiff of his cologne as he leans to take off the blindfold.

Kent blinks in the bright sunlight filling the cabin. Seguin’s sitting across the table from him and holding out a gift-wrapped box. 

Inside are two ties with the same pattern, a mix of Aces and Stars logos, stylized and sleek as all hell. “Awww, we can match! I love it,” Kent says. He takes one out of the box and loops it around Seguin’s neck, then pulls him in for a kiss. “Babe, this is really sweet and really fucking gay.”

“Says the man whose breath still smells like my dick.”

“Maybe I would have been able to brush my teeth better this morning if you hadn’t been groping me --”

A polite cough comes from behind them. “Mr. Parson, Mr. Seguin, we’ll be at cruising altitude for the next few hours. I assume you two would like some privacy?”

“Hi, Oliver!” Kent waves. “Can I wear your hat?”

“No, as always, Kent.”

“It’s my birthday --” he says, but Seguin cuts him off.

“Just give us a heads up if you need to come through to the john?”

“Roger that. Have fun, boys. The seats are Scotchguarded, but let’s not put that to the test, hmm?”

The door to the cockpit shuts with a decisive click.

“He never lets me wear his hat,” Kent grumbles. 

Once they both have their ties on and have thoroughly documented it across the Internet, and also made out a little, Seguin pours them some champagne and puts a couple covered plates out, smacking away Kent’s hand when he goes for the biggest.

“That’s the main, there’s an appetizer first.” He points at the smallest plate. His hand is shaking a little, which is weird. Maybe he’s dehydrated -- they did have a lot of sex the night before. 

“Go ahead,” Seguin says, so Kent takes off the cover.

The plate has a little tub of guac on the right, and a bag of chips on the left. The edges of the guac are starting to turn brown, and Kent can’t figure out why that’s the first place his mind goes instead of focusing on the closed ring box in the middle of the plate.

“What the fuck?” he whispers as Seguin takes the box, kneels down, and opens it. 

“Kent Vaughn Parson, you are the guac on my chicken bowl, forever. You checked me into the boards of love, and if we were lesbians there’d be a great joke about penalty boxes somewhere there, but whatever, marry me?”

“Stickhandling, babe,” Kent says as he sinks down to the floor and cradles Seguin’s face in his hands. “Should have gone for a stickhandling joke.”

“Shit,” Seguin says at the same time Kent says “yes, I’ll marry you.”

Oliver makes it from Toronto to Cancun without having to come back into the main cabin. 

It’s for the best, really. The Scotchguard never stood a chance.

* * * * 

**Las Vegas, September 2021**

“What the fuck, Parser?” Jeff’s in his kitchen, holding up an envelope in the FaceTime window.

“You got the save the date!”

“Yeah,” Jeff says slowly. 

Kent frowns. “Are you already busy July 15?”

Jeff rubs his temples. He does that a lot when he talks to Kent. It’s cute. “Are you in gambling debt, Parser?”

“..no?”

“Are you or a family member beholden to a mob boss?”

“Um, are you ok, Jeff?”

Jeff taps the envelope against the counter. “I’m just trying to figure out why Skinny Girl Margarita is sponsoring your wedding.”

“Oh!” Kent says brightly. “They’re sponsoring the reception, not the wedding.”

“Because -- “ Jeff prompts.

Kent shrugs. “Free booze means more money for surrogacy and college funds and other future Parson-Seguin offspring stuff, right?”

“Seguin-Parson!” Seguin yells from the other room.

“Over my dead body, love you!” Kent yells back. 

Jeff’s quiet long enough that Kent leans in closer to his screen. “Are you okay, man?”

“Yes,” Jeff says, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry. Just -- Parser, do you remember what you were like the first year you came to Vegas?”

“Awesome?”

“Sure, pal. Let’s go with that. I’m definitely free July 15th.”

“Great!”

They chat for a while longer, then Kent joins Seguin in their living room. He’s half-assedly following along with a yoga video. 

Kent drops on top of him. “Hey, fiance and future baby daddy.”

“Back at ya.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This started with me going "Tyler Seguin and Kent Parson's wedding would be sponsored by Skinny Girl" and then that somehow ended up sweet? Fml, I'm so soft for Kenny P.


End file.
